No Beginnings

The only thing to begin now is a novel.

I take my cue from willow, blades of grass, and the frogs buried in the mud around the lake. Shhhh, they say. This is dreamtime. The notion of launching myself with any kind of gusto into a new thing is counter intuitive at best, dangerous at worst.

That greening energy will come, soon, when there is enough light by which to see and birdsong to syncopate my steps. For now, though, I will hold my nerve: early nights, slow days, wholesome food and a lot of root-room for dreams. That means entertaining What If… questions, and exploring wild, open spaces where the logical and rational do not hold sway. It means allowing the empty space that opens when the Christmas tree comes down and life contracts to fit more neatly into a January afternoon.

A winter sunset and the thumbnail of a January’s first moon.

These are some of our darkest days. Who decided this was a good time to ramp things up? Is it any wonder we’re burnt out and glum by February? I have made every ‘Happy New Year’ conversation awkward this week by informing people I do not recognise the Roman new year, and adhere rather to the Celtic new year that begins on the 1st November.

I love the poetry of beginning at the end of the growing season, beginning in the dark, with rest and a big long sleep. Our ancestors also believed that the day started at nightfall. It is a shift in perspective that allows us to wake into a new day, or new year, with some resources in the tank.

I will make one exception, though. This is an excellent time to begin a new book.

The path to the lakeside.

The Narrative Gush

My greatest Christmas gift, was a contract from a literary agency for representation of my work. I handed over the baton of the beautiful novel I wrote last year and now I can run ahead to the next one. My agent will do the hard work of finding a home for my novel, and I can fill these cold, dark days with the bright words of a new story.

I love this bit.

The unfiltered narrative gush knocks me off my feet and takes me to the most unexpected places. So today, with the children back to school and the house exhaling after a raucous, peopled festive season, I am settling into the company of new characters. I am consulting my notebooks full of hastily-scrawled half-thoughts and opening a folder on my computer entitled: New Novel 2025.

I will also be tramping the lakeshore under dripping hazels to see the whooper swans, swinging a left past the oak and climbing up to the hawthorns who hold council in their sleep (writing is an act of collaboration). I will be on the look out for celandine’s heart-shaped leaves and the bright spear of snowdrop. When the hazel catkins unclench their fists and the willow puffs open, I want to be the first to know.

I recorded the whooper swans’ song echoing off the limestone cliffs as a reminder to hold steady. Every day they circle this cold lake, dunking their heads beneath the water to feed. They are biding their time until spring when their Icelandic breeding ground has warmed enough for them to return.

Until then, we wait.